


Uneasy

by yet_intrepid



Category: Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Gen, Sickfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-24
Updated: 2013-08-24
Packaged: 2017-12-24 11:10:27
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 999
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/939287
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yet_intrepid/pseuds/yet_intrepid
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>1827. Stubborn as he can be, sometimes Feuilly gets worried enough to ask for help.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Uneasy

After a week, Feuilly realized that he’d have to go to Joly or Combeferre.

He laughed grimly to himself as he examined the spreading rash on his forearms. Any other ailment and he wouldn’t have been able to hide it from the two medical students in the group. No cough or sneeze slipped past them, no flush or paleness to indicate a fever. But with his shirtsleeves rolled down and his jacket on, no one had noticed.

He had to admit he was uneasy, however. The rash itched horribly, distracting him when he painted, and he could not think what could have caused it. The thought of smallpox lingered in the back of his mind, and he’d even cancelled the reading lesson he normally gave to his neighbors on Tuesday evenings, just in case.

Monday after work, he buttoned up his jacket, picked up his cap, and headed over to Combeferre and Enjolras’ flat with a borrowed book. He wasn’t quite done with the volume, but if he couldn’t get around to his point it was a good enough reason to stop by.

Combeferre answered his knock when he arrived. “Feuilly!” he said warmly. “Come in…Enjolras is out, my classes have assigned my surprisingly little work tonight, and I had resigned myself to a rather unoccupied evening, so you come in good time. Are you finished with the book I lent you already? Which one is it—Caesar’s _Gallic Wars_?”

“That was last time,” Feuilly answered. “Right now I have John Locke. But no, I’ve not quite finished…”

Combeferre waited.

Feuilly took off his jacket and hung it up, then inhaled deeply. “I need to ask you a question,” he managed.

“Of course,” Combeferre said, and lead him to a chair.

Feuilly sat down. Laying his arm on the table, he pushed up his right sleeve to reveal the red, ugly rash. His skin was warm and puffy, and his white scar stood out.

“Do you know what this is?” he asked, trying to keep his voice level. “Do you—do you know if it’s contagious?”

Combeferre’s brow furrowed and he took Feuilly’s arm in both hands, peering at the rash. “How widespread is this?”

“Both forearms. Starting to move up above my elbows.”

“And how long since it started?”

“About a week, I believe.”

“Any other symptoms?”

“It itches and it’s warm, but no fever or anything like that, no.”

“Headache? Fatigue?”

“…well, a bit.”

Combeferre hesitated. “A week, and the rash isn’t blistering or spreading to the rest of the body, and there’s no fever. That should rule out smallpox, at least…but hmm.”

Feuilly let out a long breath of relief at that. If he’d been walking around with a developing case of smallpox, he could have spread it to countless people.

He resisted the urge to scratch and waited for Combeferre.

“Has anything in your environment changed since about the time the rash began?”

“Sorry?”

Combeferre gestured vaguely. “Er, you know. The water you wash with, your mattress, the way your clothes are laundered…”

Feuilly shrugged. “We changed paints at work. The new kind’s awful; it clumps all the time.”

Combeferre’s eyebrows rose. “That on top of the foremen’s increased pettiness and the more frequently docked pay?”

Feuilly was starting to respond (“Yes, and we’re expected to keep up the same speed of production; everyone is uneasy—”) when Combeferre said, “Wait.”

Feuilly stopped. He waited.

“Do you remember when you were working in that dye factory, back when we all first met you?” Combeferre began.

“Yes,” said Feuilly patiently. Factory work was not something to forget, especially when one’s employers were old-fashioned enough to manufacture their dyes with lead instead of more recently-discovered chemicals.

“Your hands while you were working there,” Combeferre continued, picking up speed as he got excited about explaining, “they were always red. And once you left, you seemed to feel better in other ways, too, but that’s off topic a bit; what I mean to say is, there were chemicals in the dye to which people should not have had prolonged exposure, and it may be so with the paint.”

“Oh,” said Feuilly. “—And it could even be a lead-based paint; I know house paint often is, and with how inferior this stuff is I wouldn’t be surprised if they’re giving us similar stuff for our boxes and figurines. Would it make sense that, if I was exposed to lead before, coming up against it again would make me react more than the others?”

“Yes,” said Combeferre. “Yes, that’s—that’s a perfectly legitimate explanation if the others haven’t got rashes.”

Feuilly sighed. “So I simply have to deal with it unless they decide to give us our decent paint back, then.”

Combeferre grimaced. “I’ll look into it. For now, wash your hands—and forearms—as often as you can to get rid of the residue.”

“We’re considering a strike,” Feuilly said. “I’ve got only a few of the others on my side so far, but if it gets worse they’ll join us. So that’s three ways, with you looking for something to help, the remote chance the bosses will realize on their own that either quality or speed is going down no matter how hard we work, or the possibility of a strike. One of them should work out.”

“Yes, something will,” said Combeferre. He pulled Feuilly’s sleeve down for him. “I wish I could give you something for it tonight. Maybe something to help you sleep more easily?”

“Thanks,” Feuilly said. “But I’ve managed this long; I’ll be all right. You told me what it is and that helps.”

Combeferre shook his head. “I’ll find something; I promise. Though I hope for all your coworkers’ sake as well as yours that one of the other solutions comes through as well.”

“So do I,” said Feuilly gravely. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’d best go home and tell my neighbors that I can hold our reading lesson tomorrow after all.”


End file.
